Perfect Strangers Read online

  "Well?" the older voice asked. "Are ye going to tell me what ye're aboot, or shall I fetch yer da and let ye try explaining to him what yer doing down here? I'm thinking the Maxwell will not like hearing that his wee bairn was down here visiting such prized, not to mention dangerous, prisoners. What think ye of that, lad?"

  "I, er, m-meant nae harm," Simon stammered. "I was curious and wanted but a peek at The Black Douglas, 'tis all. Gordie likes to tell me the beast has fangs as long as my little finger and sharper than any blade. I was of a mind to see if me brother is right. Besides," the boy added, and his voice took on a softly shrewd note, "if ye run and tell me da that I was down here, I'll not have a choice but to also tell him that the only way I was able to get so close to The Black Douglas's cell was because ye'd left yer post. I ken 'twas for but a wee dram to quench ye thirst, and well I ken it that the prisoners could not get free no matter how many guards were posted, these doors be to thick and sturdy. Still, I'm not so sure Da would agree leaving a Douglas unguarded, The Black Douglas at that, was a wise thing to be doing. What think ye on the matter, Seamus? Mind ye, I'm nae squealer; I've nae wish to tattle on ye."

  Connor and Ella exchanged a quick glance.

  A pause was followed by a muffled chuckle. "Ye be a crafty one, lad. I've not a doubt that in the years to come, ye'll do the Maxwell and yer pack of brothers proud. Aye, that ye shall. Meanwhile..." The man sighed heavily. "Weeell," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "since ye already be here, 'twould seem the damage is done. I suppose there's nae harm in letting ye take a wee peek."

  "Do ye truly mean it?" the boy asked excitedly.

  "Aye, God help me, I do. After all, 'tis not like Caerlaverock's dungeon is graced with such illustrious hostages e'ery day. Fact is, this dreary place may ne'er see the like again. Besides, were I a bairn such as yerself, I'd be doing me best to get an eyeful and slake me own curiosity. All right, lad, come here. I'll hoist ye up on me shoulders so ye can look yer fill, but as soon as I set ye down, ye're to scoot straight up those stairs and not e'en think of coming down here again. And ye'll not breathe so maun as a word of this to yer da. Do ye ken?"

  "Aye!"

  The man grunted something in response.

  Connor and Ella moved quickly away from the door.

  In no time at all, Connor was again sitting upon the cold stone floor with his back against the wall, eyes closed as though he was dozing.

  Ella pretended to recommence her pacing in what little space was available on the shadow-strewn floor between her cousin's extended, ankle-crossed feet and the far wall.

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway; they stopped directly outside the door. "All right, up ye go. Ugh! Ye're at least a stone heavier than the last time I hoisted ye. Shift a little to the left, would ye? A wee bit more. Och! that's a good lad. Now, take a peek through those bars and ye'll be getting a rare look at the notorious Black Douglas, prisoner of the Maxwell. Go ahead, take a good look, Simon, and remember all ye see. Mark me words, lad, 'tis a sight ye'll be recounting to yer own wee bairns one day, don't ye ken?"

  Ella stopped pacing and, fists balled and planted atop the slender line of her hips, chin tilted proudly, she stared at the small, barred window.

  Connor cracked his right eye open only enough to be able to glance at the window through the shield of his lashes. The shadows were too thick to distinguish much, but he glimpsed a pudgy face and a crop of bright-red curls just beyond the steel bars.

  "'Tis a woman!" Simon exclaimed accusingly.

  "Eh?" The man's voice was muffled. "I can't see, lad, ye've got yer leg wrapped around me eyes. Aye, Simon, there's a woman in there; howe'er, she isn't The Black Douglas, merely his cousin. Look aboot, lad."

  "But I dinny see... Och! there he is," Simon said, his young voice suddenly hushed with awe. "There, sitting upon the floor. Is he really The Black Douglas?"

  Ella grinned, nodded, and took a step toward the door. "Aye," she said, "look yer fill, lad. 'Tis The Black Douglas in the flesh."

  "Are ye sure? He doesn't look so fierce."

  "And what were ye expecting him to look like?" she inquired haughtily.

  "Could ye move yer leg, Simon? I can't see," the man grumbled, but if the boy heard, the lad paid him no attention.

  Simon pursed his lips, his red brows drawing into a scowl. "'Tis rumored The Black Douglas stands o'er seven feet tall."

  "An exaggeration." Ella shrugged. "Suffice to say that Connor Douglas is taller than maun. And a good few inches taller than that despicable twin of his. Nay, ye can't tell it at a glance, lad. 'Tis impossible to predict how tall a mon stands when he's scrunched down so."

  "And wide," the boy said as he scrutinized Connor. "'Tis said The Black Douglas's shoulders are so wide that Bracklenaer's doors had to be widened to allow him to pass."

  Ella snorted and clucked her tongue. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Do ye believe e'erything ye hear, lad?"

  "Aboot The Black Douglas, I do," Simon announced proudly. Ella was sure she heard more than a smidgen of admiration in the boy's tone, and saw more than a wee spark of admiration light the gaze the boy ran fondly over Connor's supposedly sleeping form. "'Tis exactly like him I want to be when I'm a mon full grown. 'Tis exactly like him I shall be."

  "Does that mean we can look forward to seeing ye warming the dungeon in Bracklenaer in, och! say another score or twa?"

  "Nay! A Maxwell is not so easily caught by their enemies. The ballads praise The Black Douglas's cunning and quickness. I'm of a mind that if such were true, I'd not be looking at him now."

  "Och! lad, believe me, if the fight were a fair one, 'tis true, ye'd not be having the pleasure of seeing him now. Unfortunately, such wasn't the case."

  Simon's frown deepened thoughtfully. The man upon whose shoulders he perched again demanded he move his leg, but Ella did not think the lad heard, so intently was he looking at Connor. "Are ye telling me The Black Douglas was taken unarmed? He dinny e'en put up a fight?"

  "How could he? He was ne'er given a chance. E'en the fist of The Black Douglas's is nae match for Gordie's broadsword, lad." Ella took a step toward the door and, lowering her voice as though afraid she'd awaken her cousin, whispered confidingly, "They dinny tell ye? Yer brothers Gordie and Roy took Connor prisoner whilst he slept."

  Ella suppressed a smile; the boy's horrified expression did not disappoint her.

  "Nay!"

  "Aye!"

  Connor stirred, and the cell grew abruptly silent.

  Through the shield of his lashes, Connor watched the boy slip his right hand through the bars. The lad's knuckles looked youthfully pudgy as his fingers opened.

  Ella, God bless her quick-thinking Douglas heart, coughed noisily to mask the sound of the object the boy dropped clattering atop the hard, cold stone.

  "Ne'er let it be said that a Maxwell won unfairly," the lad said with a maturity that belied his bairnishly rounded cheeks.

  "Fair or nay, that a Maxwell did win this day is all that matters now," the man holding the boy grumbled. Simon had only a fleeting second in which his glance volleyed meaningfully between Ella and the object hidden by the shadows near her feet before the man stepped away from the door, hauling his youthful burden with him. "Now, get ye down, lad, a'fore I end up with me shoulders permanently stooped from bearing ye."

  "A Maxwell has nae need to cheat, don't ye ken?" the boy argued, his voice fading a bit as the man set him down on his feet. "We can win against the Douglas fairly. Just ye wait and see."

  "What's that ye say? Lad, have ye learned so little from yer da? There's naught unfair or shameful aboot finding yer enemy's weak spots and taking him down by them."

  "Mayhap," the boy murmured. "But there's much to be proud of in taking yer enemy a'ter a fair fight. For example, were I the one who'd come upon The Black Douglas this morn instead of Gordie and Roy..."

  The boastful ring of the boy's words faded. A pair of receding footsteps—one's stride long and sure, the other's short and quick as it hurried to keep st
ep—indicated the man was escorting his young charge away from the cell door and down the shadow-strewn hallway.

  Connor forced his suddenly alert muscles to keep their reclining pose when he would rather have bolted to his feet and satisfied his curiosity by inspecting the object the youngest Maxwell had left behind. Prudence held both his and Ella's impatience in check until they heard the thunk of a door closing in the not too far-distance.

  Assured they were alone, Connor opened his eyes and pushed to his feet. By the time he reached his cousin's side, Ella had already retrieved the object.

  "Och! Connor will ye look at this. 'Tis a skean dhu, and quite a fine one." She turned the small dirk this way and that, holding the weapon up as though trying to get one of the dreary gray rays of sunlight that managed to sneak in through the window to glint off the small emerald embedded in the short, thick hilt. The steel blade was squat, but sharp and nonetheless deadly.

  Connor's gaze shifted between the dirk and his cousin. Did she have any idea the value of the object she held? Nay, he doubted it. Gently, as though reaching out to take the hand of a long-lost and treasured friend, he took the weapon from her. "Show some respect, lass. 'Tis not just any skean dhu."

  "Surely ye dinny mean...?" She tipped her red head and looked at him quizzically.

  "Aye, surely I do, " he said, and as his gaze lifted from the dirk to meet Ella's, he grinned broadly. "'Tis the one Colin stole from me near a half score ago. The one our da gave to me upon his deathbed."

  Connor held the dirk up, his gaze admiring it respectfully even as his brow frowned with the memory. The weapon was small, but the symbolism of it was weighty indeed. The dirk was a weapon the real Black Douglas, James, friend of Robert the Bruce, had taken into many a battle with him, a weapon that had been tucked into the boots of all the lairds of the Douglases of Bracklenaer since.

  Until the weapon had been entrusted to Connor's care, that is.

  Colin had stolen the precious dirk the night their father died... and in so doing launched a blood feud that almost rivaled in violence the one between Maxwell and Douglas. Almost.

  Connor ran the calloused tip of his thumb over the flat surface of the emerald. After all these years, the stone was still smooth and fine. The weight of the dirk felt comfortably heavy in Connor's hand. Finally, it was back where it belonged. Now, if he could only set to right the rest of his world so easily.

  His gaze shifted to the door, and his grin broadened as a plan began to form in his mind...

  Chapter 11

  "Yer kin doesn't treat ye ver well, lass. I hope for yer sake the ones ye have back in England treat ye better."

  "I've no relatives in England," Gabrielle answered the man who looked like Connor, but who most certainly was not Connor. "If I did, I'd not have been at Elizabeth's court..." She paused, frowned. "I probably would not have been there," she corrected hastily. "And had I not been at Elizabeth's court, I'd not have been ordered to marry Conn—Coli—er, you, and therefore would not be in this despicable situation now."

  Gabrielle's gaze shifted, scanning the room. Not an easy feat since the night was closing in and no candle had been left for them.

  Three hours—and what had felt like several dozen staircases—ago, they'd been led here by a gloating Gordie Maxwell.

  The room was small and dank, the only furnishings a bed and a chair; neither had weathered the years kindly. It was on the former which Gabrielle sat, and the latter upon which Colin Douglas sprawled. Outside, a harsh wind whipped over the Borders, howling over craggy hills and valleys. Even in the vague light of dusk, Gabrielle's discerning eye couldn't detect a single tapestry lining the walls to block out the cold, seeping draft.

  The mattress was straw-stuffed, and felt as lumpy and as stiff as a gnarled slab of oak beneath her. It gave a token crunch when Gabrielle shifted, so she sat further up on the bed. Since the relic possessed no headboard, she leaned her shoulders back against the bare wall. The cold, damp feel of the stone soaked quickly through her tunic, into her skin, making her shiver. A sneeze tickled the back of her nose. Her eyes watered as she sniffled it back.

  "Och, dinny fash yerself, lass. Dry yer tears. We'll be rescued. Eventually."

  His voice, she thought as she stared dejectedly at a point where age-darkened mortar converged the corners of four stones on the opposite, shadow-strewn wall, did not sound very much like Connor's. While Connor had a deep, husky voice that washed over her like sun-warmed honey and made her feel tingly and vibrantly alive, his twin's voice was rougher, cloudy, and left her feeling nothing at all.

  Gabrielle's attention moved to her reluctant companion, and she frowned when a sharp, tingly bolt of awareness shot through her. It was as unexpected as it was intense. The dim lighting combined with the way the man's large body lounged in the chair and dominated, while at the same time ate up, what little space the small room provided, made her think of Connor. A stab of longing pricked at her heartstrings.

  She quickly suppressed the emotion. This man might look like Connor but he was not Connor.

  "Your men will be here soon?" she asked, and noticed that her own voice was only slightly higher than normal, only slightly breathless. "You're confident of that?"

  "My men? My men?" His chuckle was harsh and short, not at all comforting. "Nay, lass, I dinny think so. I've naught men to be here. Soon or otherwise."

  Colin's eyes were now firmly shut. His dark head was pillowed against the chair back's meager padding. The fabric—so frayed that the stuffing beneath exploded from countless moth-eaten holes—might once have been a fine gold brocade. Might. There was no way to tell for certain. Age had faded the color, while a score or two of hard use had worn the threads and tattered them until the material was unrecognizable as anything but unforgivingly old, coarse of texture, and vaguely dark yellow in some spots, dirty brown in others.

  "If you've no men, then how can you say so confidently that we'll be rescued?"

  "'Tis a matter of reasoning." His left shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. "Gilby."

  Gabrielle shook her head, trying and failing to follow his logic. "Gilby?"

  "Aye. The mon will not allow his laird to stay in the Maxwell's keep a second longer than is necessary. Either a ransom will be demanded, and paid promptly, or an escape attempt launched. Mind ye, me guess would be the latter. Have ye not heard any of the ballads they sing aboot The Black Douglas, lass? Me brother and his men have been in and out of Caerlaverock so many times they maun ken the layout of the keep better than Johnny Maxwell himself."

  Gabrielle's hopes plunged with all the speed and surety of a stone being tossed into a deep lake. Shaking her head, she said sharply, "Your confidence is misplaced."

  "Mayhap ye'd think so—and truly I can see why ye would—but I ken better. Yer a Sassenach, therefore yer ignorance can be forgiven; ye simply cannot be expected to grasp the way of things here. I, on the other hand, am a Border reiver born and raised. Trust me when I say we'll be rescued, and rescued soon." He wrinkled his nose distastefully. "Connor's men are loyal to a fault. And maun reliable. Especially his clan captain. I've nae doubt Gilby will be along shortly to fetch his laird... and us along with him."

  "I have doubts. Quite a few of them."

  "Aye?" Colin grumbled and shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. "Och! well, 'tis yer right, I suppose. Just keep them to yerself. There's a good lass. I've need for a wee bit of sleep, ye see. I was up all last eve raiding. 'Tis exhausting work."

  Gabrielle stared at the man, and for the first time in a long time found herself speechless.

  How could he talk about last night's raid so casually? She was sure she'd fight nightmares for months to come, remembering how two men had tried their best to kill each other right before her eyes. In those long, dark hours of the night, she'd seen more blood spilled than she had in her entire lifetime. Good Lord, she'd even watched helplessly as Gilby clung to a tendril of life as Mairghread and Ella diligently nursed him.

 
Yet here was Colin Douglas, sprawled haphazardly in a chair, referring to the incident as though a bloody midnight raid was so common an occurrence as to be insignificant. A minor inconvenience, an annoying interruption to his sleep.

  She remembered the way Mairghread's eyes had glittered; the woman's ancient face had actually been lively and animated as she'd led Gabrielle through Bracklenaer's twisting hallways. She remembered also the way Ella had watched the violent swordplay taking place just outside the mouth of the tunnel with no more concern than she'd show one of the fox hunts Queen Elizabeth was so fond of. Gabrielle herself had literally become ill at the thought of participating in fox hunts!

  Perhaps here on the Borders such activity was common?

  Was that possible? And was it also possible for something so gruesome and horrifying as last night's raid to become so commonplace as to fade in people's minds before twenty-four hours had elapsed?

  The gentle snore emanating from Colin Douglas's direction told Gabrielle that, detestable though the thought was, not only was such a thing possible, it was probable.

  She'd heard the tales and many of the ballads. She'd known before leaving London that the Borders were barbaric in both landscape and inhabitants. Yet never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined exactly how barbaric.

  Gabrielle shuddered and rested her head back against the hard, unforgiving stone. She didn't want to think about how the man who slept so peacefully and soundly near her was the man she should by now be wed to.

  Didn't want to, but did.

  She closed her eyes, that thought linking itself naturally to others. None of them had a bit to do with Colin Douglas. They had everything to do with his twin brother.

  Hot, sultry memories of the night before teased her mind. Her lips burned as she remembered the feel of Connor's mouth moving hungrily on hers. Her fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists when she imagined the warm, smooth skin of his naked back gliding like silk beneath her searching palms.

  The fire of passion that had burned inside her last night began to spark anew in her veins, heating the blood that was suddenly pumping hot and furious through her body. A soft, expectant sigh whispered past her lips as she recalled the way Connor's mouth had moved against the oh so sensitive curl of her earlobe, his voice hoarse and ragged as he'd called out her name the instant he'd spilled his seed inside her.